


To love, but love in vain

by postmodernsleaze



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 14:57:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postmodernsleaze/pseuds/postmodernsleaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sergio didn’t want this. He only wanted to make a clear statement against homophobia – which not many prolific players have actually done, and would have been somewhat revolutionary on its own- not get carried away and lie about his sexuality.</p>
<p>In which Álvaro Morata is outed, Mesut Özil is lovestruck, and Sergio Ramos is a fool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To love, but love in vain

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [this](http://footballkink2.livejournal.com/9132.html?thread=3259052#t3259052) prompt at the kinkmeme.

_“A mighty pain to love it is,  
And 'tis a pain that pain to miss;  
But of all pains, the greatest pain  
It is to love, but love in vain.”_  
― Abraham Cowley

 

It all starts with Morata’s name in big, fat letters on the front page of Marca. ‘ALVARO MORATA GAY’, it reads. The word gay, colored a violent shade of red, pops right off the page. There’s a grainy picture of El Niño with his hand on the inside of some guy’s thigh and his tongue halfway down his throat by the looks of it. They’re very obviously not in a public place, and the picture was clearly taken from a considerable distance away, but it doesn’t matter. The media have done more with less. Underneath it, in smaller print, it says ‘ _Real Madrid’s promising, young forward: the secret is out!_ ’

Sergio feels the orange juice he just drank try to force its way back up his throat. Morata’s never mentioned his sexuality to him, let alone come out in front of the team. He’s never even tried to broach the subject in a joking manner, at least not to Sergio’s knowledge. Hell, the kid changes girlfriends about as often as he changes underwear, just like any other hot blooded guy his age. It doesn’t make any sense at all.

Sergio calls Iker right after he’s finished thumbing through the article, his breakfast left completely forgotten on the kitchen table. 

“Have you read Marca?” He doesn’t bother with a hello. 

“Of course I have. Good morning to you, too.”

“Well?”

Iker sighs. In the distance, Sergio hears a car horn blare. It throws him off for a second.

“Where are you?”

“On my way to Valdebebas. I tried calling Álvaro four times. He’s not picking up, and I want to get there early just in case. The PR department is going to have a field day with this.”

“Yeah.” Sergio feels his stomach churning again. “Do you want m—“

“No, I’ve got it,” Iker’s quick to reply, because that’s just how it is between them. Iker only needs half a word to understand what Sergio wants to say. It’s nice, for the most part. “Training’s not until eleven; there’s no need for you to come in early. Listen, I really shouldn’t call and drive. I’ll see you in an hour and a half.”

Sergio says goodbye and hangs up. He takes his dirty plate – still mostly full- to the kitchen and clears the table. He checks his bag to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything, contemplates taking a quick dive in his pool, decides against it and goes to get dressed. He writes a short note for the cleaning lady, checks his bag a second time and looks at the clock.

In the car on his way to practice - forty minutes earlier than usual- he plays flamenco music in the hope that it’ll take his mind off El Niño for a moment.

It doesn’t.

 

They don’t actually see Morata at training that day, although Sergio later learns that the kid was, in fact, at Valdebebas. He also learns that apparently not everyone reads Marca the way he and Iker do. After Mourinho solemnly informs the team about the article right before training starts, a wave of shock and surprise goes through the group.

Some are very vocal about how they feel, like Cristiano, who’s always had a soft spot for Alvarito and arguably possesses one of the most terrible poker faces in the history of football.

“Those bastards! He should sue. The _club_ should sue! How did this even get published?!”

There are murmurs of agreement. Pepe shouts something in Portuguese which makes Cristiano nod vehemently and Iker furrow his brows. “ _Spanish_ , por favor!” This concerns all of them.

Others just go quiet. Kaká – who always keeps more to the background- runs a hand through his hair and looks genuinely worried. Sergio doesn’t need to hear him say that his heart goes out to the youngster; it shows clearly on his face.

At his side, Mesut’s gone silent too, and that’s… not really like him. The German is quiet on the field, a picture of focus and professionalism, but not so much at training. At least not since he’s started understanding Spanish a little better.

Sergio nudges him lightly, tries for a small smile because he’s a glass half-full kind of person, even when he feels sad and anxious.

“Okay?”

Mesut glances up at him, his lips pressed together into a thin line, and shrugs ever so slightly. 

“Yes. No… I feel sad for Álvaro.” A beat. “It will be very difficult for him.”

Sergio knows it will, as is made all the more evident by his absence at practice. There’s a glimmer of worry in Mesut’s dark eyes, though, one that could almost be mistaken for fear, and it makes Sergio say:

“The kid will be all right. The team will support him, and the club. Marca will have something else to write about tomorrow.” His words help ease his own mind a little, and he goes for reassurance when he smiles this time – all teeth- and pats Mesut on the shoulder. Mourinho calls them all to order and tells them to start stretching.

Sergio decides to disregard Mesut’s doubtful look. It’s going to be fine.

 

It’s not fine. They’re playing Alcoyano on away and even though they’re leading 1-3, the tension in the team could be cut with a knife. It’s the first game since Morata’s horrible outing, and Mourinho decided to make a statement by bringing him on in the 65th minute. Ten minutes later, and the chants coming from the stands haven’t stopped yet.

“MORATA, FAGGOT! MORATA, FAGGOT! GO SUCK A DICK! MORATA, FAGGOT!”

Sergio feels a cold, iron hand closing around his heart and squeezing tightly. He hears Mourinho shout at them to keep their focus on the ball and Sergio does, but he can’t help but look at the kid every chance he gets. El Mister was brave to sub him, and he’s brave to keep playing despite the chants, but it doesn’t _feel_ like an act of bravery. It feels like abuse, and it leaves a bad taste in Sergio’s mouth.

At around the 82nd minute, Morata is slipped the ball by Cristiano and Sergio sees him run with it, past two Alcoyano defenders and straight at the goal and Sergio thinks _this is it! This is his moment_.

Only he gets fouled just inside the penalty area and the stadium erupts in laughter. 

“This is a disgrace!” Iker’s shouting behind him. Sergio knows Iker; knows what he looks and sounds like when he’s mad and frustrated. Their Captain is _furious_.

Cristiano takes the penalty and scores – of course he does- rounding up the score to a solid four goals in favor of Real Madrid. He doesn’t celebrate, though. He just looks up at the crowd and shakes his head.

Sergio’s jaw thickens. He can relate.

 

Afterwards, in the changing room, they crowd around Morata and pat him on the back, offer him words of comfort even though the kid brushes them off and tells them he’s fine. They got a victory, and he’ll live.

Mesut seems at war with his kit, a furious expression on his face as he changes clothes and storms out without so much as a word. Sergio wants to follow him, get to the bus as fast as possible and leave this whole match behind.

He lingers, though, until there’s no one left but Morata, Xabi, Iker and himself. Xabi has his hands on his hips and looks on with a grave expression as Iker sits down on the bench next to Morata and gently pats the back of his head. He’s got it bowed down to the floor and in his hands.

“It will get better, Alvarito. The entire team is behind you.”

“You were strong out there on the field today,” Xabi puts in, and Iker nods even though Morata can’t see it.

Sergio’s heart bleeds for the kid when he finally looks up and there are tears threatening to spill from his eyes. With how talented he is, how mature in his play, it’s easy to forget that he’s _only_ just twenty. They jokingly call him Niño and ruffle his hair at training, but it’s _not_ a joke. He was a teenager just yesterday, and he doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve to get abused and scrutinized for the way he loves, for _whom_ he loves. He has the support of the entire team, that of their Captain in particular, but it doesn’t seem like enough. Sergio’s second Captain and he wants to do something. _Needs_ to do something.

Sergio needs to do something. 

 

“… and so I would just like to ask the media and the fans to stop obsessing over players’ sexualities. We’re human, just like you, and deserve to be treated as such. Homophobia has always been an issue in football, especially here in Spain, and it needs to stop. So what if Álvaro is gay? Do you think it affects his play? Makes him a bad footballer? _I_ ’m gay, too. What about me?”

It’s out before Sergio good and well realizes it, and the collective of journalists present at the post-game presser literally _gasps_. The hungry sound of cameras going off fills the air and questions are fired at him from all directions of the room. Sergio didn’t want this. He only wanted to make a clear statement against homophobia – which not many prolific players have actually done, and would have been somewhat revolutionary on its own- not get carried away and tell a lie. 

One of his teammates is in pain, though, and he’s always been impulsive.

One of the Real Madrid representatives present drags him away from the sudden chaos, and chaos it is. There are going to be serious consequences for running his mouth, Sergio already knows.

It’s worth it, though; He’s pretty sure Morata’s name won’t be in the papers tomorrow.

 

Sergio’s a grown man, but he doesn’t think he’s ever gotten in as much trouble as he is in now, and that includes the one time he ran away from home with his best friend for a grand total of three hours and his mother found them in a field chasing cows. He’d been six and all he’d wanted back then was to become a torero.

All he wants _now_ is for people to leave him alone, and that’s saying something considering the kind of social person he believes he is.

He’d called his mother as soon as he was able to, of course. Besides being the woman who gave birth to him, she’s also his best friend and confidante. He’d explained the entire situation to her, and she’d told him she didn’t fully understand but that he’d been stupid to lie about such a thing and how did he expect to make things right? He hadn’t been able to answer that question. He also hadn’t been able to answer Iker’s question when he’d called almost immediately after the conversation with his mother had ended to ask him what the _hell_ he thought he was doing?!

He honestly doesn’t know. It’s too late now, anyway, and he’s just going to have to roll with it.

Sergio leans his head back on the couch and flicks through the channels on TV, carefully avoiding any that might still be airing his confession. There’s an alarming amount of them out there, and he goes through every single one until he finds a documentary about Camargue horses he hasn’t seen yet.

His phone rings and Sergio plans on ignoring the call, but _Fernando calling_ pops up on the display in neat cursive, and he just can’t.

“Hola.”

“You’re not gay.”

Sergio doesn’t know why, but it makes him snort with laughter.

“I think there’s a certain interview you’ve missed.” He can almost _feel_ Fernando glaring at him from halfway across the sea.

“Oh, no! No, it’s on every sports channel here in England. Great job, Ramos, really.”

Sergio heaves a deep sigh.

“I just—don’t you get tired of all the homophobia sometimes? Alvarito… you should have been at this Alcoyano game, Fernando, it was horrible.”

“So you decide to tell the world you’re gay. Which, by the way, you’re not.”

“Well, I don’t know. Are you so sure of that?” Sergio jokes, because it’s better than the alternative; being confronted for the umpteenth time that day with the mistake he’s made.

“ _Sergio_.”

And that throws Sergio off, because it sounds to him like a warning.

“Why, would you care if I was?”

He hears only silence for a moment, then a sigh. “Of course not.” And Sergio knows Fernando’s being completely honest when he says it. “I mean, I’d have some serious questions about all those women you’ve dated, but—“

Sergio doesn’t hear the rest of that sentence, because just then his doorbell rings.

“Hey, there’s someone at the door. Mind if I call you back?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll talk to you later. Olalla sends her love.”

“Give her and the kids a kiss from me.” He’s already padding towards the door on his bare feet.

“Will do. Oh, and Sergio? Try not to do anything else stupid in the meantime.”

Sergio chuckles despite himself and hangs up.

 

The video intercom reveals it’s Mesut, and that strikes Sergio as a bit odd. Not because his teammate doesn’t visit him at his home – he does, almost every other day- but because they’re neighbors and the German usually comes round the back.

“Hey, Mesut,” Sergio greets him with a wide smile, ushers Mesut inside before the man can so much as open his mouth to reply.

“Why didn’t you come through the back? Lost your way?”

Mesut swallows visibly and shakes his head, shrugging off his jacket as he does. Brown leather. Sergio likes it.

“No, I just went for a walk first.”

Sergio cocks a questioning brow at him and leads him right through the hall and into the kitchen.

“Juice?”

“No, thank you.” Mesut reaches up to brush a strand of hair behind his ear, only he cut it a while ago and it hasn’t grown back long enough for the gesture to be effective. It makes Sergio smile a little.

“Suit yourself.” He pours a glass of apple juice for himself and leans back against the counter. “What’s up?”

Mesut drags his teeth over his lower lip, sighs and sits down on one of the fancy stools Sergio bought a couple years back. They’re bright orange and more kitsch than they are retro, but Sergio likes them a lot. His mother told him once that they suit him.

“I need to tell you something… but I don’t know if I can find the right words in Spanish,” Mesut says, and rubs the palms of his hands over his jeans.

Sergio frowns. “Your Spanish is good enough, Mesut.” Because it is. It’s not great, but Mesut understands and speaks more Spanish than most people give him credit for. He just doesn’t like to, because he gets insecure about it easily.

Mesut shakes his head. “Not for this.”

“What is this about?” Sergio goes from at ease to worried in less than five seconds, and the expression on the German’s face does nothing whatsoever to help curb the unpleasant feeling.

“Okay,” Mesut says, and then, “okay.” He takes a deep breath and stands up. Automatically, Sergio straightens up a little too.

He waits, expectant, for Mesut to say what he needs to say. In his mind, Sergio’s already making up a variety of possible scenarios, each one worse than the other. _”My mother’s really sick, I’m going back to Germany for a while”_ and _”I’m unhappy at the club, I’m leaving next season”_ and _”What you said at the press conference, I’ve thought about it and I don’t think we can hang out anymore”_. They’re unlikely things (Sergio knows for a fact that Mesut _is_ happy at Real Madrid and he’s way too kindhearted to be homophobic) but the silence between them and the hesitation in Mesut’s eyes make Sergio feel on edge. 

“Mesut? Please, just tell m—“

Mesut crosses the distance between them in two easy strides and then Sergio’s being kissed. The small height difference makes Mesut tilt his head up slightly and Sergio… Sergio bumps into the kitchen counter and only just manages to clumsily slide his glass of apple juice out of the way.

He’s being kissed by a man. He’s being kissed by _Mesut_.

Mesut must take the fact that he hasn’t been pushed away yet as a sign, because Sergio feels a hand creep under the edge of his worn shirt. There are fingers brushing over his abdomen and they are _cold_ , cold enough to make goosebumps rise on his skin. Sergio sucks in a breath and Mesut must take _that_ as a sign, too, because all of a sudden there aren’t just lips for Sergio to silently freak out about; there’s a tongue too. It swipes over his lower lip and it’s… it’s…

“Wait,” Sergio croaks out, and gently but firmly pushes Mesut away from him. 

There’s a slight flush on Mesut’s cheeks and the tips of his crinkly ears, but other than that he still looks exactly the same. Just plain Mesut, the guy who plays beautiful, _beautiful_ football and puts on German rap music that makes Sergio’s ears bleed whenever they ride to training together. Mesut, who is not only his teammate and neighbor, but also one of his best friends. Who hangs out with him in his pool all the time (because it’s bigger than his) and who, apparently, is gay.

Mesut is gay.

“I’m not gay,” Sergio blurts out. It’s hard for him to be subtle, and he’s never cursed himself more for it than he does now.

“What?” Mesut chuckles in disbelief.

“I’m not gay,” Sergio repeats, and Fernando’s voice is echoing inside his head, “I lied at the press conference.”

The corners of Mesut’s mouth drop, and he takes a couple of steps back. 

“Why would you lie about that?” His voice is quiet, too quiet, and there’s a hard line on his forehead where he’s furrowing his brows.

“To help take the heat off Morata,” Sergio replies dumbly, because it’s the truth and it seems like such an obvious thing to him, “I just wanted to support him. He doesn’t deserve all the shit he’s been getting.”

Mesut’s silent for what seems like ages but in reality can’t be more than a minute. Sergio’s too afraid to speak, so he just stares at him. Hopeless, unsure,…

Finally, Mesut scoffs.

“I can’t believe you.”

That’s it. That’s all and then Mesut’s grabbing his leather jacket - lips a thin line and eyes hard- and storms out of his kitchen, through the hall and out of the house.

Sergio feels his stomach drop and a chill settle deep inside his bones.

 

He tries to call Mesut five times that night before he goes to bed, and one more time when he’s already in it. It always goes to voicemail and after leaving him two messages and sending twice as many texts, Sergio’s done. He lies awake for a long time, though, just thinking about Mesut and the kiss. He comes to the obvious conclusion that Mesut is most definitely gay, no doubt about it. There’s simply too much at stake for the kiss to have been impulsive or a bad joke. Mesut’s not only a professional footballer, but also Muslim, and while Sergio doesn’t know more than the basics about the religion, he’s pretty sure homosexuality is generally frowned upon.

Sergio thinks about his own sexuality, which is something he’s never actively done before. He thinks about his feminine side –being too emotional at times, enjoying shopping a lot more than most guys, arguably his sense of fashion- and admits to himself that it’s definitely there, and well developed at that. He entertains the thought of being with a man instead of a woman. Kissing Mesut hadn’t felt all that different than kissing, for example, Lara. It’d been rougher and firmer, less soft, but Mesut’s always clean-shaven and there’d been no stubble or anything of the sort.

It kind of bothers him. That it _didn’t_ feel completely weird. If the kiss hadn’t done anything for him, it hadn’t repulsed him either, and his lack of a reaction might have been due to the fact that Mesut took him by surprise.

Sergio knows it’s completely ridiculous and wrong on so many levels besides, but he wonders if…

He thinks of Mesut’s body, his broad shoulders and the sharp V of his hipbones. He thinks of the curve of his neck and what could be hiding underneath his football shorts. He deliberately thinks of typically male features, and idly scratches at his lower abdomen. He lets his fingers linger there for a while, as he further considers Mesut’s body. While he can _appreciate_ the way Mesut’s built, thinking about him half-naked and sweating doesn’t turn him on at all. Sergio’s pretty sure that if he was even remotely gay, it should.

He reaches down and grabs hold of his cock, anyway, strokes himself to hardness thinking of Rebecca Romijn in _Femme Fatale_ and Lara spread out naked on his bed, touching herself.

When he’s there, he conjures up the image of Mesut again, changing tactics by opting to focus on who Mesut _is_ instead of his body. He breathes out through his nose and closes his eyes, thinking about all the times they hung out at the pool together or played PES in his living room. He thinks about Mesut pressed up against him as they celebrate goals, the feeling of elation and euphoria at playing the beautiful game together. 

Sergio thinks of all this for twenty minutes straight as he jerks himself and rubs the pad of his thumb over the head of his cock, just the way he likes.

When he eventually comes, it’s with a shout and the image of Lara naked and pressed up against the shower wall burning on the back of his eyelids.

Sergio doesn’t know whether to feel incredibly relieved or slightly disappointed. He settles for both.

Mesut likes him, as more than just a friend. He’d seen it in his eyes. Perhaps Mesut even _loves_ him, and Sergio… well…

Sergio loves how easy it is to talk to Mesut about what means the most to him in life, like his niece and his horses and football and flamenco music. Mesut’s an excellent listener. He loves the way Mesut takes a free kick, even if he doesn’t do it often enough, and the way he runs circles around the opposition. He loves how comfortable he is around him, loves the fact that he’s here in Madrid and hopes he’ll stay for a long time. 

Sergio loves Mesut, but he’s not _in_ love with him. He never will be.

He only sleeps a few hours that night.

 

A week goes by, and Mesut has taken to completely ignoring him. It’s like the German suddenly came to realize that their entire friendship was nothing but a figment of his imagination and Sergio doesn’t actually exist.

Sergio absolutely hates it.

He watches Mesut at training, passing the ball back and forth with Sami and doing the occasional trick for no other reason than that he can. He laughs and exchanges a few words of German with his fellow international whenever he thinks Mourinho’s not paying attention, and everything looks normal except that it isn’t. Not at all.

Sergio runs alone and stretches alone. He doesn’t pass the ball around with Mesut unless Karanka puts them in the same team, but even then it’s not anything like it used to be.

Iker notices.

He stops Sergio on the way back to the changing room, and waits for the others to pass them by.

“Is there something going on between you and Mesut?” He asks.

“No,” Sergio lies, “I’m just tired. What happened last week’s still weighing heavy on me.” At least there’s some truth to that. The team knows he’s not actually gay, as does everyone else who really needs to know -management, his family, his best friends- but he’s still getting furious voicemail messages from ex-girlfriends demanding an explanation, and the press has been all over the story. 

Iker sees right through him. “Whatever it is, you need to work it out. Talk to him.”

Later, when Mesut wraps a white towel around his waist and looks right over Sergio’s shoulder to ask Benzema if he wants to use the steam room, Iker’s words come to mind again and Sergio thinks _easier said than done_.

 

Sergio decides to stay at the Valdebebas long after practice is over. He swims laps to clear his head and pushes himself to the point of exhaustion at the gym. Kaka’s there, too; he trains an additional two hours nearly every day to help him regain his form quicker. They talk about their families and joke around a little. It’s nice, if completely different from his conversations with Mesut. Ricardo seems to have his life completely in order, while Sergio’s is just falling apart lately.

Morata has lingered, too, though Sergio doesn’t find out about that until he and Kaka are walking back to their cars and there are footsteps echoing through the parking lot, closing in behind them.

“Sergio!”

Sergio looks over his shoulder and breaks out into a smile at the sight of him. The youngster looks good, freshly showered and no longer sporting brown circles underneath his eyes. He’s carrying his sports bag over his right shoulder and is clutching the strap. He looks hopeful.

“Can you give me a ride home?”

Kaka’s opening his mouth to answer, always willing to help when needed, but Sergio beats him to it; he knows Morata wants to talk to him. It’s a nice change now, having someone actively seek out conversation.

“Yeah, sure. Come on.” He nods his head in the direction of his Audi.

They say their goodbye’s to Kaka, who gives them both a warm smile and actually _waves_ before he starts walking back to his own car. Not for the first time, Sergio is left wondering how the guy remains so positive all the time. Even when he’s not getting as many minutes as he deserves, even when he needs to work twice as hard as most of them. It’s admirable and almost jealousy-inspiring, if it wouldn’t feel so inherently _wrong_ to feel jealous of such a genuinely nice person. It’s easy to get why Cristiano likes him so much.

Morata gets in the car with him and they’re on the road less than two minutes before he starts talking.

“I wanted to thank you… for what you did.”

Sergio glances over at him and sees he’s biting the nail of his thumb. He’s not looking at him, but it’s easy to see that talking about this isn’t easy for the boy.

“No thanks needed. People were wrong to give you that much shit about… well...”

“Being gay.”

“Being gay,” Sergio repeats, glad he’s at least not insecure or uncomfortable enough that he doesn’t want to say the word out loud.

“Yeah,” Morata trails off, sighs, “my boyfriend broke up with me, you know. After those pictures got published. He wasn’t out yet, either.”

“Was he famous or something?” Sergio makes a left turn and gives Morata a questioning brow. Morata just looks puzzled.

“Eh, _no_ ,” he replies, as if Sergio’s missing something vitally important, “his family just didn’t know. His dad completely lost his mind, kicked him out of the house.” Sergio takes his eyes off the road and looks back at him, but Morata’s looking straight ahead, out the window. “I told him he could stay at my place, but it didn’t work out. He’s living with his sister now.”

Sergio nods and is quiet for a beat. He can’t imagine actually being gay and being ousted by his family because of it. His mother had cared more about the fact that he’d lied to the public than _what_ he’d lied about, and he’s sure even his father wouldn’t have a problem with his sexuality if it varied from the norm. That poor kid.

“What’s his name?”

Morata hesitates. “Antonio.”

“Do you miss Antonio?”

Morata doesn’t say anything. Sergio takes that as a yes.

“You should talk to him. I know this really nice place that regularly hosts a flamenco band and—“

He’s interrupted by Morata’s laughter, which fills the car and startles Sergio a little because he’s being completely serious here.

“You’re one to talk. Don’t think I don’t know something’s going on with you and Mesut.”

Sergio feels his stomach twist, and he clutches the steering wheel a little tighter. Has it really been that obvious? Iker’s able to read him like a book, but he hadn’t expected anyone else to pick up on the tension, at least not as quickly as this. Then again, Mesut carries the heavy pitchers of silence incredibly well, and without spilling a drop. 

“Look,” Morata says, still smiling, “I don’t know what the problem is there, but you should take a piece of your own good advice. Talk to Mesut, and I’ll see about talking to Antonio.”

They’re quiet for the remaining five minutes of the ride, although the silence between them is not uncomfortable at all. Sergio’s thinking about Mesut again after the German was brought up for the second time that day, but there’s music playing softly on the background and Morata’s leaning back in his car seat. He’s looking out the window, idly tapping out the beat of the song on his knee. It’s nice.

When he pulls up to Morata’s house, the kid doesn’t get out immediately. He unbuckles his seat belt and just stares at Sergio for a moment before he reaches out and hugs Sergio to the best of his ability, what with the shift stick and a small collection of CDs in the way.

“Thank you,” he says again, quieter, and Sergio feels warm inside.

After Morata gets his bag out of the car and is about to slam the passenger door shut, he leans in and points at Sergio.

“Don’t tell anyone I did that.”

On the drive back to his home, Sergio taps out the beat of every song that comes on, too. Morata and Iker are right; this thing between him and Mesut needs to be resolved.

 

Another three days pass before Sergio finds an opportunity to talk to Mesut.

“Help you stretch?” He offers, and Mesut’s only silent for a moment as he regards Sergio from his position on the grass. He nods.

“I miss you,” Sergio blurts out, not unlike the way he’d told Mesut _”I’m not gay”_ , and grabs hold of the other man’s leg. He’s always worn his heart on his sleeve, and if it’s gotten it in trouble before, he sees no reason not be blatantly honest with Mesut.

“I miss you, too,” Mesut replies simply, as if it’s a completely normal, acceptable answer.

“Then why the hell are you not talking to me?” Sergio frowns, confused.

A beat and then Mesut’s sitting up, hugging his knees. He looks around and sighs. He takes a while to mull over his answer; Sergio can almost see the cogs turning inside the other man’s head.

“Because. Because for a moment I thought you really were gay, and that…” he makes a gesture with his hand and trails off. Sergio looks around to see if anyone is paying close attention to them. Iker’s looking at them from across the field, but other than that everyone’s busy warming up. He carefully sits down next to Mesut.

“Mesut, I’m sorry,” he starts, “I only wanted to help the kid. I had no id—“

“No, stop,” Mesut says, “you don’t have to… what’s the word? Justify?”

Sergio nods.

“You don’t have to justify what you did. I get it. I’m just… I’m ashamed, okay?”

“You’re ashamed that I told the press I’m gay?”

Mesut chuckles humorlessly. “No, for that I’m mad … _was_ mad.” Sergio breathes a small sigh of relief at that. “I’m ashamed because I kissed you.”

Mesut makes sure not to look at him and scratches idly at his bare knee. Sergio can only stare at the other man’s profile, his perfectly straight nose and sharp chin.

“I didn’t know the right words to say,” Mesut continues, “so I kissed you. I thought…” he trails off again. “Look, I don’t want to talk about it. It’s—“

“You know that if I was gay... _could_ be gay, I wouldn’t think twice, right? You’re one of my best friends, Mesut. I miss that." A beat. "I miss being your friend.”

Mesut’s quiet. “Just give me some time, okay?”

Sergio opens his mouth to say something more, but then Mesut’s standing up and walking away, heading for Sami and Modric, who’ve nearly finished stretching. 

Sergio’s left sitting there on the ground, wondering whether anything got resolved or if he just made it worse. He doesn’t have a lot of time to think about it, though; hardly a minute passes by before Marcelo’s jogging over to him, default smile plastered on his face, and playfully kicks at his foot.

“You’re going to get fat, sitting on your ass like this!”

Somehow Cristiano hears, because Sergio hears him yell “You’re one to talk!” and that makes Marcelo fire something back in Portuguese. He almost sounds like he’s Portuguese, not Brazilian, that’s how fast the words come out of his mouth.

“Spanish, _por favor_ ,” Iker sounds rehearsed and like he’s finally resigned himself to his fate in life. He’s got a few more years liked this ahead of him. Sergio laughs.

“Come on,” Marcelo chuckles, and extends a hand to pull him up, “before Mr. Hair gel over there starts thinking he’s better looking than both of us.”

“What do you mean _starts_ thinking?!” Sergio thinks he can see Cristiano raise a pointed brow at them and smirk good-naturedly.

He says nothing, just raises his shirt a little to show off his perfectly formed six-pack, and Marcelo barks out a laugh. Cristiano laughs too, a full body laugh, and Sergio expects him to reach for the hem of his own shirt, but he doesn’t get the chance.

“Quit it!” Mourinho tells them, eager to move training along. Sergio makes sure to work so hard that he simply doesn’t have time to think about anything else but football.

 

They win their next game, if only just, with Mesut managing to score off Pipita’s pass in the 88th minute. Sergio’s already halfway across the field before he realizes that his cheers might not be welcome, but then Marcelo’s dragging him with him – ecstatic- and before Sergio knows it, Mesut’s head is buried in his neck as they all hug.

His cheeks actually _hurt_ , he’s smiling so wide.

There are supporters in the stands who’re throwing him dirty looks - even though they just scored, even though they just _won_ for them- the same ones who also gave Morata grief a few weeks back, but Sergio couldn’t care less; Mesut’s smiling back.

Sergio grabs his face and touches their foreheads together. They’ll be all right.

END


End file.
